To You The Stars

by Wendy Cartwright

  ‘It’s Halloween. You never know who’s going to call round.’

  ‘Hmm. Where’s Eleanor?’

  ‘Over at Milly’s. But what is this, Bill, the Spanish Inquisition?’

  ‘No, I just have this feeling you were expecting me. You see, I can’t help thinking you saw this coming.’

  ‘Oh, but you don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘You don’t believe in Astrology and you don’t believe in the Supernatural.’

  ‘I don’t have to believe in Astrology to find it interesting. It isn’t a matter of belief.’

  I was about to reply but he suddenly looked so miserable, I decided it probably wasn’t a good time to launch an argument about the Meaning of Life.

  ‘You’ll tell me, I suppose,’ he said, sinking back down into the old armchair, ‘You’ll tell me, I’m sure, it’s Neptune.’ Then he told me the sad story of how his dream dissolved. It had all begun to unravel when they returned from their holiday in the Sun: when the time had come to make it real, she had cut and run. For this was her pattern: when people got too close, she ran away. She felt safer that way. She had returned to her previous lover who would never really be there for her; she had chosen the past.

  I nodded then reached for my cigarettes. ‘That does sound like Neptune.’

  ‘Absent Father Syndrome,’ he said. ‘Another one.’

  ‘I haven’t got an absent father.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. He’s dead, it’s true. But he isn’t absent.’

  ‘He must be, or he wouldn’t haunt you.’

  ‘He doesn’t haunt me. He’s safely tucked away in a far and distant land.’

  ‘A Land Fit for Heroes?’

  ‘Well, who knows? Who knows about that?’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘There is no Land Fit for Heroes in this world – which is why you must carve one out for him in the stars.’

  I reached for my glass of punch, ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I think so. It’s why you became an astrologer. Oh, you tried History at first, looking for answers: Why him? Why did he have to suffer? But History proved a disappointment. No consolation there. So, next you turned to the Imaginal Realms. I can create, you thought; I can re-create the Land Fit for Heroes he deserved but never got. And where better to look than to the stars - where no one can prove you wrong, and where you can remain forever his golden child, ever on the look-out. It’s why you never finish anything that matters to you. And why you always feel alone.’

  I took another sip of punch. ‘Well, that’s an interesting perspective, but you know I’ve never been very keen on psychological explanations. They reduce people, I think.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Yes, I haven’t forgotten the painting you showed me when we first met; the one you made the night your father died, a small child looking out to sea in the dead of night. No stars in that sky.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t got that one anymore,’ I said. ‘I painted over it. But never mind my father, Bill. Shouldn’t you be asking yourself why you’re always attracted to women with absent fathers?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ he replied, ‘I’m a mirror.’

  ‘You’re always saying that.’

  ‘Yes, because I am.’

  ‘Hmm, well, I don’t know about mirrors.’

  ‘No, because you’re not one.’

  ‘I really don’t understand what you mean.’

  He shrugged. ‘When you’re a mirror, people look at you and they see themselves.’

  I remembered my dream: a mirror in the hallway, the crystal chandelier and how quickly I had taken myself out of that scenario; wanting to make good my escape. Maybe I didn’t want to be seen? On the other hand, it did make very good sense to steer well clear of breaking glass, to keep well out of it.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out as you hoped, Bill,’ I said, preparing to clear up. But he followed me out to the kitchen and buttered a slice of bread.

  ‘Now, you’re not going to tell me you didn’t see this coming. I won’t allow you that.’

  ‘I didn’t as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You must have looked at your charts.’

  ‘I didn’t look for an outcome. No point.’

  ‘But you knew there was this Neptune going on.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t cause anything. The planets are signs not causes. For some people the dream comes true. You can’t tell from a Birth Chart what people are going to do with it. You can only speculate, you can’t predict.’

  ‘But you ought to be able to predict - if there’s anything in it.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Astrology doesn’t work like that. If it did, astrologers would be extremely rich. It’s not mechanical thing, it’s an Art. There’s something else going on.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘With you, there always is.’

  ‘You get to see what’s permitted,’ I replied. ‘What you need to know.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but that’s my feeling.’

  ‘But you will be able to predict, I’m sure, where the Sun will be in about six months from now.’

  I hesitated, not quite following his drift.

  ‘You’ve got your Ephemeris. You can predict exactly where the Sun will be - and all the other planets. So, where will it be, the Sun, in early May or thereabouts?’

  ‘The Sun, in May? Well, Taurus -

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ he said.

  And, no, I didn’t cast the chart for this announcement. I was too busy throwing-up in the kitchen sink to look at the clock.

  ‘I’m sorry about all this,’ said Bill as he helped me clean up: ‘It’s a terrible mess, I know.’

  ‘It’s the alcohol,’ I replied, ‘I’m not used to it.’

  * * * * *

  My next few diary entries flatly state: ill. Throat. Stomach. By the 6th of November, however, I must have recovered, for I now enjoyed a, ‘lovely meal with Bill and Eleanor,’ at the White Hart in Wytham. On the 16th, Bill mended the downstairs loo and replaced light fittings; on the 24th, he cleaned out the guttering and repaired a broken chair. We spent Christmas with his sisters in Yorkshire. I spent the New Year with my mother. There are no further entries during this period, apart from the usual: ‘Skin bad again. Feet.’ Then, on the 6th of January 2000, I telephoned an astrologer in London with a question that had been on my mind for some time: Should I return to Wales?

  The chart said no. Not a resounding: No. But, on balance, best not. Spotting the New Moon – an ill omen in Horary - conjunct the Descendant of Dorothy’s Death Chart, I decided to stay put. Although I missed my mother, I didn’t want to move so far away from Bill; nor did I want to leave Dorothy’s grave unattended; her story as yet unearthed. So, during my next school holiday, the February Half Term, I brought out my certificates and looked at them again.

  Dorothy’s father been retired out of the Police Force and had died aged thirty-five when she was nine years’ old. Had she blamed herself for his death, I wondered, as children often do? Her mother had remarried in 1916 and been widowed again. That can’t have been easy either. Still, I imagined Dorothy would have coped: her occupation of private secretary (at the time of her marriage) suggested a responsible, organised person; good in a crisis. Not that there would have been many careers open to a woman of her background in those days as I knew from my mother’s case. Had Dorothy, like my mother, longed to go to University only to find family finances wouldn’t allow? But when details of her will arrived in the post (via Martin, the Friendly Librarian) it seemed that her material circumstances had not been as modest as I had supposed. She had bequeathed the sum of eight hundred pounds, no small achievement in 1946, to her husband, Wilfrid. He, some ten years later, had bequeathed his estate to one Edith Priscilla Pook, widow.

  ‘His comfort,’ said Bill, ‘in his old age.’

  ‘No children then.’

  ‘Doesn’t
look like it.’

  ‘Poor Dorothy.’

  ‘And poor Wilfrid.’

  I began stacking the dishes. ‘I wonder why she didn’t leave anything to Peter.’

  He shrugged as he topped up his wine. ‘Who knows? She may have met him after she made her will. She may have made her will upon marriage and never changed it. Or maybe he didn’t want anything from her.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I brightened, remembering the inscription. ‘It’s ‘to you, the stars, narcissi fields and music.’ And people weren’t as materialistic in those days. I expect Wilfrid met Edith after Dorothy died. What do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Only it struck me, supposing Dorothy doesn’t know? Could this be what she wants me to find out?’

  ‘You want to find out.’

  ‘Well, of course I do. But maybe that was it. Wilfrid was having an affair and Dorothy didn’t know but had her suspicions.’

  ‘If she was anything like you she did. Poor old Wilfrid, that’s all I can say. I imagine he never got a moment’s peace. Of course, what you’re forgetting is that Dorothy was the one with the lover.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t know that at all. We don’t know who Peter was.’

  ‘And we don’t know who Edith was either.’

  ‘Hmm. I suppose there’s an outside chance she may have been their daughter, wouldn’t you say so? If she had married very young and been widowed, say, in the Second World War?’

  ‘Unlikely. I think you’ll find she was his comfort.’

  ‘Oh, I hope there was a bit more to it than that!’

  ‘It’s not to be sniffed at, comfort,’ he replied. ‘It’s no mean thing.’

  So, who was Edith, I began to wonder; and I stewed on it for a while; but then I let it drop. I was too busy to go off in search of Edith or anyone else. My mother had a spell in hospital at the beginning of March, and then I was busy spring cleaning. I wanted my house to look good because I was going to open it up during Art Weeks. I had started painting again during the previous winter. I’d painted portraits, the view from my living room, my cats asleep on the chair. In the spring, the daffodil bulbs I had planted on Dorothy’s grave blossomed on cue. I had my narcissi fields. In May, Bill had a daughter - born under the sign of Taurus.

  Venus Phosphorus

  July 11th 2000

  The best part of a year had passed since Bill had met Madeleine; and now, on Dorothy’s anniversary, a dream of my own was coming true: Bill and I were attending Evensong in a local chapel.

  It was a small and compact chapel; the congregation equally small - just me, Bill and the vicar, who appeared nervous and embarrassed which may have had something to do with the fact that Bill subjected him to a sardonic smile and penetrating gaze throughout the rather brief service. The theme of the service was, ‘Letting Go of the Past,’ which seemed appropriate under the circumstances: we had asked for a blessing on our forthcoming marriage. However, the reading, from the Old Testament, contained a fair amount of smiting and blasting of crops, which had rather less of a romantic ring. Still, Bill loved the irony and we burst out laughing as soon as we got outside. I can’t remember what we sang. Again, just me, Bill and the vicar. It may have been, ‘Nearer my God to Thee.’

  Afterwards, we walked home through the churchyard and I laid a couple of the pink carnations Bill had given me on Dorothy’s grave. And it was while we stood there chatting that he suddenly announced, and without any prompting from me, that he had been talking things over with a friend, and they had decided that since my illnesses were psychosomatic, my health would improve after we got married.

  ‘But what if it doesn’t?’ I said, plummeting rather rapidly from Cloud Nine.

  ‘It will,’ he replied. ‘Therefore, the sooner the better.’

  I looked down at my bandaged feet and began to worry. Supposing it didn’t improve, supposing it got worse? What then? After all, when he’d asked me to marry him, he’d called me his Rock; his Peter - not his Wreck.

  ‘Aren’t we rather rushing into things a bit,’ I suggested over supper.

  ‘Oh yes, after all we hardly know each other.’

  ‘No, I only meant, I’m beginning to feel perhaps we don’t have to do it by the end of the month. It makes me feel pressured.’

  ‘There’s no reason for you to feel that way.’

  ‘But that is how I feel, Bill. I’ve got Venus in Taurus, I don’t like to feel rushed, and I need to be sure you’ve sorted your finances before we get married. I’ve got Eleanor to consider, not just myself.’

  ‘You’re putting conditions on it. You don’t trust me. I’ve told you I’ll sort things out at my end and I will. You concentrate on what you have to do.’

  My task was to book the Registry Office. We had also agreed that I would choose an auspicious day. As luck would have it, however, an auspicious day and the Registry Office were not available at the same time. Furthermore, at the end of the week, Venus was involved in an eclipse.’

  ‘This isn’t a good omen,’ I told Bill.

  ‘For you.’

  ‘It doesn’t augur well for either of us. And you can hardly expect me, an astrologer, to get married when Venus is involved in an eclipse. This would be like expecting a Catholic to get married at Stonehenge.’

  ‘So what about all these other happy couples, I wonder - the ones who got up early enough in the morning to book the Registry Office - are they doomed?’

  ‘I don’t know about them,’ I replied. ‘It’s the chart for the moment you proposed to me I’m looking at. The Lunar Eclipse falls on the position of Venus in that chart. Oh, but hang on, Bill, what are you talking about? I did get up early in the morning. I told you the ‘phone was engaged. By the time I got through, somebody else had booked the last slot. They pipped me at the post - the other couple. They slipped in: Venus eclipsed.’

  He reached for his glass of wine. ‘You’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘We just have to wait for a better time. Let’s have another think when we’re on holiday, we can’t do anything before then anyway.’

  The following day, I drove down to visit my mother – ‘though not to discuss wedding plans.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ she said as I walked through the door, ‘I hope nobody saw you come in.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I used the tradesman’s entrance.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘All right, I didn’t.’

  ‘You may think me a nag, but I do wish you would wash your hair.’

  ‘I can’t, my eczema’s flared up again.’

  ‘You don’t look after yourself,’ she complained, ‘I can’t imagine how I brought you up to be so casual about your health.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ I began rummaging in my bag. ‘Now, where did I put your new slippers?’

  ‘No, I didn’t that’s for sure. If you’d seen the things I’ve seen, you’d appreciate the Gift of Life. Oh, but why do I bother. You never listen to me. Where’s Eleanor?’

  ‘I must have left them in the car.’

  ‘Where’s Eleanor?’

  ‘Out with Alison and the Girls, they’ve gone to the beach. There’s some kind of carnival on. I’ll bring her in tomorrow morning on our way back.’

  ‘Please do. So, you’ll be breaking up from school soon?’

  ‘Yes, thank God. I can’t wait for the end of term. I’ll be able to get on with my research.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  ‘Now, Mum, that’s hardly fair. I’ve just marked over a hundred A’ Level papers.’

  ‘You haven’t been marking A’ Level papers since March.’

  ‘No, I’ve been marking Coursework.’

  ‘You’ve allowed Bill to distract you again.’

  ‘Well, I do have a life, you know. Or, I wouldn’t mind having one.’

  ‘You’ve got a very easy life, compared to the one I had.’

  ‘All right, Mum. Could I not have a lecture today, do you think? I’m
very tired.’

  ‘Yes, because you don’t look after yourself. You don’t eat properly and you don’t keep sensible hours. You behave like an adolescent. Your daughter, who is an adolescent, is a lot more sensible than you. I’m telling you, Gwendolen, you’re your own worst enemy. Self-destructive, like your father. Well, you’ve made your own bed and you are going to have to lie in it now. I can’t help you anymore. I’m no use to you anymore. No use to anyone.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, don’t talk like that.’ I moved towards her but took a step back when she waved for me to keep my distance.

  ‘I’m sorry to find you so low,’ I added, ‘I know it’s awful for you, stuck in that chair.’

  ‘Oh well, and I’m sorry I’m so ratty, I can’t help it.’

  ‘You’re frustrated. It’s a nightmare for you. I’d hate it. I do understand.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the trouble with you. You make excuses for everybody - hopeless.’ And she turned her head away.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I said, ‘I’ll come back after you’ve had your nap.’

  ‘Just as you like.’

  When I returned, I found her in a much better mood. She’d been on her Nebulizer and got a bit more air into her lungs. We sat for a while looking through photographs, then went through her funeral arrangements again which she seemed to enjoy; nodding like an old-fashioned school teacher listening to a pupil recite the content of a lesson she had been required to learn off by heart. And, of course, just to keep me on my toes, she occasionally changed the content. A few weeks back, she had wanted flowers; now she had decided against them. In April, she had wanted a male voice choir; now absolutely not. A year ago, she had wanted a woodland burial; now, the public cemetery. She remained consistent, however, in her wish to avoid cremation (because it would upset Eleanor) and in her absolute determination that neither Church nor Chapel should be involved.

  ‘You have got that, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Good - because I’m not having you sneaking God in by the back door. I’ve warned your brother. Watch out for your sister, I said, she’ll try to sneak Him in when she thinks I’m not looking.’